Find me, where lonesome weeping echoes drift across the battlefield.
Find me, beyond the graves of fellows, whose wounds were never healed.
Find me, when only silent hearses search the lea for those who might remain.
Find me, upon the crest of death himself, within the blood there dried and stained.

My thunder echoed loudly, when once decision’s tide was run.
My heart grew cold and cloudy, at first blow lain till last shriek done.
My soul, in fluttered reservation, drew duty from the tangled limbs.
My God, sincere, no hesitation, to drift these men on wings to Him.

Poignantly paused in sullen stare,
her quiet embarks a journey there
that pulls a long red thread through time,
where memories’ stitch runs soft in rhyme,
yet for no other reason
this time alone entrapped.

With softened wing she tugs the line.
Her feathered breast gives rise in time.
I feel the very moments played
before the greying light and fade.
Drift I another season.
Cast still. Alone. Enrapt.

Hushed, her stare, from on the branch,
gives rise to childhood’s echoed glance,
repeats the southern wood and spring
where all my wonders held me king,
where once I could parlay
the heart of summer’s dream.

As whispered through a lilac breeze,
she tugs the string in playful tease,
that I into the courtyard’s dusk
find love in autumn’s deepest musk.
First blush by kiss belayed,
in love’s eternal scheme.

With fluttered tail and heaving breath
her red thread pulls the chord of death.
Beneath spring storm and somber sky,
raindrops blend the tears I cry
for love once found, now lost.
Remains to bless one rose.

Such quiet holds her mournful stare
that unto evening rends a tear,
that holds this grey and withered one
in faltered breath and setting sun.
A blue bird counts the cost.
Drift I in last repose.

Yet angel’s wings are stranger things
when to the mortal touch be blessed,
shape a heart in labyrinth,
embracing hope with truth confessed.

But not of mortal love alone,
but of a simple heart’s desire
to warn the soul,
to kindle kind
the ashes of love’s fire.
The fire,
that once has burned
within a mortal beating heart,
is lashed to love again,
again,
until an angel takes the part
to free the anguish and the grief,
to carry life’s own burden grown,
to bear the weight and frame eternal,
to swiftly lift sweet love toward home.

Dew drops stacked in waiting,
wanting,
upon the tiny tinsel there…
just souls in longing love’s return,
suspended in the evening air…